The Milky Way
by cherryade
Summary: Wee!chester: A fluffy moment in the aftermath of Mary's death as John holes up in a motel room with his young sons in tow and a lack of something essential.


The tinny crying of a baby issued from the cot next to him, sounding both demanding and depressed. John sighed and opened his eyes. Dean was already out of bed, his small bare feet slapping softly on the tiled floor. John clambered out of bed and chanced a glance at the ugly clock that sat on the bedside table. 3am; time to feed 'lil Sammy. Dean realized this too for his gaze was darting between the empty milk powder tin that sat beside an equally empty beer bottle and his father. John sighed and ran a hand through his messy hair all whilst trying to fight off pangs of guilt.

Dean cocked his head to the left, eyes narrowed in question. His hands clenched into fists by his side as anger flared in his green eyes. John flinched.

"Damn," he muttered as he got up. "I'm so sorry." Dean pursed his lips and his sudden resemblance to Mary was both heart-wrenching and cherished. The five-year-old pulled himself over the rickety barriers of the cot and dropped carefully beside his brother. He picked up the struggling bundle and attempted to sooth him.

Almost immediately, baby Sammy ceased crying as he gazed at his brother with wide and hungry eyes that demanded food from a brother that never disappointed. Dean smiled tenderly and traced his little brother's tiny nose with a finger. John fought back a smile. He would not have much problem with his boys, he knew, and it made his life all the easier in this hard time. He knew he could leave Sammy in safe hands when he went out to avenge their mother's cruel and premature death. Still, guilt gnawed at him as he shook off the groggy remnants of sleep and pawed the bedside table for his keys.

The noise irritated Sam and he began to cry again, echoing wails that elicited an angry snarl through the narrow wall that separated their room from the neighbour's. Dean shot his father a reproachful look as he cradled Sam in his arms. John said nothing. He sat down again on the hard motel bed and buried his face in his hands. How was he, a young, recently-widowed father, going to bring up two very young children all by himself?

A sudden, desperate longing for Mary welled from deep within him and he shook with the force of his tears as grief wracked him. Suddenly, there was a tap on his shoulder. The room was silent now; Dean had managed to calm his brother yet again. John looked up and through eyes blurred with tears saw his eldest son before him, a packet of tissues in one hand and a small bottle of white powder in another. He proffered both items, green eyes shining with undisguised concern.

"Thanks, son," John said gruffly as he accepted the packet of tissues. "What's this?" He pointed to the bottle. Dean placed it on his father's lap and walked up to the empty milk powder tin. He picked it up and placed it in his father's lap.

"Milk powder?" John asked incredulously. Dean nodded.

"Where did you get this?" John asked him. As expected, the query elicited not a word but a silent finger towards the tin. John unscrewed the bottle and dipped a finger into the smooth powder before touching it to his tongue. Although Dean had insinuated that it was milk powder, their current residence was a shady motel and drug transactions were not unusual. It was, however, as Dean said it was. John hurried to mix Sam a bottle as Dean cradled his brother in his arms. He was starting to cry again, loud and tantrum-like. Dean glanced at his father, bottom lip between his teeth as he willed his father to hurry. He rocked his brother gently back and forth.

"Here you go, Sammy," John said as he placed the bottle on the table to pick Sam up. Dean relinquished his hold reluctantly. John settled on the bed and held the bottle for Sam to drink. Dean watched both of them for a moment, a thoughtful look in his eyes. Then his gaze darted to his father's face, a curious and unidentifiable expression on his face. Without a word, he strode to the empty beer bottle and dropped it in the bin. It shattered into shards. Their neighbor, fed up with the noise, sent an object sailing towards the wall causing a dull thunk. John ignored this in favour of watching his son. Dean stared fixedly at the bottle for a moment and clenched his fists. John felt his heart beat a little faster, his pain intensify, his guilt multiply.

Then Dean turned towards him and smiled. There had been scarcely a smile on the once bubbly boy's face for months now and the sudden one was like the first light of day. It was different though, forgiving, understanding and belonging to someone much older than his five years. It was also sad and John once again felt the agony of losing his wife, of their children losing their mother. This was, however, slightly dampened by the hungry Sam who was swallowing his milk contentedly, causing the bottle to rise and fall in a gentle rhythm. Dean came up to him and wriggled his way into the crook of John's arm before snuggling closer to Sam. He yawned and shook his head as if to deny his drowsiness.

John smiled. If all was lost, he had, at least, his little angels.

"Sleep, son," he said gently. "Thank you."

Softly, he began humming Hey Jude.


End file.
